16 Tiger Shrimp Tango (4 page)

“What a bargain! Paid the bondsman ten cents on the buck.”

“But why would you waste good money that way?”

“It’s like those credit-card ads,” said Serge. “Bailing a dipstick out of jail: eight hundred dollars. What happens now: priceless!”

Serge returned his gaze to the field, resting his chin on top of a post. A quarter mile away, a tiny silhouette turned in a circle and glanced around.

“Nothing’s happening,” said Coleman. “He’s just standing in the open, looking confused.”

“He will soon be accompanied by other thoughts.”

“Wait, what’s that?”

“Where?”

Coleman stretched out an arm. “Way over there to the right.”

“Are you sure?”

Coleman looked down at his sneakers. Written across the toes in Magic Marker:
R
on one;
L
on the other.

“I mean the left,” said Coleman. “Even farther away from the guy than we are. It’s not moving. Just standing upright like a human, but the shape’s not right.”

“The guy sees it,” said Serge. “He’s starting to back up. The thing has spotted him and is beginning to walk in his direction.”

“Where’d you get this idea anyway?”

“From a friend who worked at Busch Gardens in the seventies,” said Serge. “He used to run the rib shack, and people really must have loved ribs back then because by the end of the day, they had such huge piles of ashes from the wood they’d burned that it filled several fifty-five-gallon drums. Then they loaded the drums on the back of a big Cushman golf cart, and the animal handlers would give them the all clear, open the gates and wave them through. They’d drive around the Serengeti Plain in the dark, spreading the ashes because it’s a good fertilizer.”

“That doesn’t sound dangerous,” said Coleman.

“It’s not,” said Serge. “Except one night when they reached their first drop point, faint yelling erupted back at the gate:
‘Get out of there! Get out now!’
My friend turned and realized they hadn’t secured all the wildlife. So he mashed the pedal of the golf cart all the way down, racing for the gate and praying. He’d worked at the park a long time and knew one extreme peril that the general public would never suspect.”

“Peril?” Coleman looked up at the gnarled ranch sign over the gate. “I’m not buying it.”

“I was skeptical, too, so I did some research on the Internet.” Serge watched his former captive break into a full sprint. “Found reports of several deaths every year in South Africa and Louisiana, even videos on YouTube. One article quoted a California zookeeper saying that they’d had a couple lions escape since they opened, except they weren’t worried because the big cats were old and sluggish. But there was one zoo resident whose possibility of escape freaked them out more than all the others and required the tightest security.”

“It’s starting to chase him,” said Coleman, tracking the pursuit with a pointed finger. “Man, I had no idea they could run that fast.”

“A sustained forty miles an hour, with even faster bursts.” Serge raised binoculars. “That’s what my friend at Busch Gardens found out.”

“But, Serge, when you’re waxing a dude, you usually like it to have some kind of . . .” Coleman stopped to ponder.

“Theme?” said Serge.

“That’s it.”

“Oh, it’s got a theme all right. Some of the finest unknown Florida history around. Back in the late 1800s, they had breeding farms all over the northern half of the state, some for the meat, others for entertainment.”

“Entertainment? Like this?” Coleman gestured across the field at their former hostage, who was losing ground.

“Believe it or not, they used to race these things with little jockeys on their backs. Around 1890, a farm in Jacksonville actually became one of the earliest Florida tourist attractions, with a greyhound-like track. I don’t know if they placed bets. There were other races and farms, including one in St. Petersburg. EBay has some hundred-year-old sepia-tone postcards of people saddling these babies up. Then the whole thing died out until a couple decades ago when breeders started getting good money again for the drumsticks, and they began a resurgence.”

Coleman looked up at the sign again:
C
IRCLE
K
O
STRICH
R
ANCH
. “So what happened to your friend?”

“The ostrich was much faster than his golf cart, so while my friend drove, the other guy from the rib shack starts pushing fifty-five-gallon drums off the back, one after another, and the ostrich just hurdles them like one of those exciting raptor chases from
Jurassic Park
. The barrels slowed the bird down just enough to let their cart shoot out the gate at the last second, and they can now laugh about it today.”

Coleman’s finger was still pointing. “It’s almost to the guy. He’s looking over his shoulder . . . But what makes an ostrich so dangerous? Their beaks don’t look too scary.”

“Not beaks, their feet.” Serge held his hands apart like a fisherman bragging about a catch. “They’re huge and powerful, and if you saw a cropped photo without the rest of the bird, you’d swear they belonged to a dinosaur, which on the evolutionary family tree is actually correct. Each foot has two toes with a giant weapon at the end that is a cross between a hoof and a talon.”

“Can I borrow the binoculars?”

Serge handed them over, and Coleman followed the action with magnification. “It’s just a few yards behind him now . . . How do they use those toes, anyway?”

“In the case of human attack, first they knock their prey down and pin the person on their back with one foot . . .”

Coleman tightened the focus. “Just happened.”

“. . . Then they start raking their victim’s chest with the other foot.”

A shrill, spine-tingling scream echoed across the field. “Put a check mark there,” said Coleman.

“The feet are so powerful that they easily rip out all the ribs and keep going through the internal organs until the dude’s on empty.”

“Something went flying,” said Coleman. “Definitely a rib.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

Coleman kept his eyes pressed to the binoculars. “Ostriches are cool!”

“I’m thinking of approaching some of these farmers to start up the races again.”

“What happened to your empathy thing?” asked Coleman.

“Just because I was forced to mete out justice doesn’t mean I don’t feel his pain.”

“There goes a liver.”

“Ouch.”

Chapter Four

THE NEXT MORNING

S
unlight filtered through the leaves of a jacaranda before hitting the kitchen window.

The table had orange juice and all the sections of the newspaper spread out in reading-order preference. Toast popped.

The three-bedroom Mediterranean stucco sat on a quiet street just south of Fort Lauderdale in a town called Dania. You could tell it was an original 1925 hacienda because of the detached garage out back—not the new replicas with two or three horrendous garage doors on the front of the house that wreck the architecture. It was now worth a nice chunk of change, but a bargain back when Jim Townsend bought it in the eighties. Dania was known for having one of the last jai alai frontons that wasn’t a dump.

Jim always had a knack with numbers. He was an accountant, but made more than most because he did corporate work. He could also count cards. And ex-wives, which was three.

Jim liked his toast and his jacarandas. The garage out back had recently been cleaned and emptied to make space. He was going to treat himself to something he always wanted, now made possible by the departure of his latest spouse for a defrocked priest she’d met at the holy candles.

The most important section of the paper was the classifieds. Jim found the listings for used cars. Everyone now shopped on the Internet, which meant the occasional gem could still be found in print. His finger ran down a column to the bottom, then back to the top of the next, just as it had every day for the last two weeks. But this time the finger stopped. He couldn’t believe it. Jim put on glasses and read again. Right there in black and white: a 1969 Corvette Stingray convertible with four-speed manual transmission, 390 horsepower turbojet and a 427 cubic-inch V-8. A little high on miles but the right color. Lemon yellow. But best of all was the price. It definitely wouldn’t last. He jumped for the phone. After eight rings:

“Hello?” Someone eating cereal on the other end.

“Yes, I’m interested in the Corvette in the paper.”

Crunch, crunch.
“I’ve been getting a few calls.”

“But you haven’t sold it yet?” said Jim, subconsciously thinking,
Trix are for kids.

“No, it’s still here.”

“Good,” said Jim. “I’d like to take a look as soon as possible.”

“Where do you live?”

“Dania.”

“Great. I’ve got to do something down there today anyway. What’s your address?”

Jim told him.

“Wait, that won’t work. Just remembered I got this other thing. You know that pancake house on U.S. 1 north of Hollywood?”

“Sure.”

“Why don’t we meet there? You can take her for a spin, and if you like it, the pancake place is there for coffee and some table space to handle the paperwork.”

“Works for me,” said Jim.

“But let me ask you a question: Are you familiar with Corvettes?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re aware the price is on the low side.”

Jim clenched up. Here it comes: the catch. He played coy. “It’s a
little
on the low side, but I’ve seen a few in that range.”

“Well, I can perfectly understand if this isn’t acceptable to you, but I can only do it at that price if it’s a cash deal. It’s a personal—”

“I’m an accountant.”

“So you understand.”

“Your business is your business.”

“Okay, and if you have to call me again and a woman answers . . . uh, that’s partly why we need to do this at a restaurant and the cash thing. We’re going through a—”

“I’ve been divorced three times.”

“So you understand.”

“When would you like to meet?”

“How about tonight around seven?”

Jim was in the parking lot of the pancake house at five. Straight from the bank, no stops. The whole procedure at the bank had been a rolling anxiety attack. He’d never even seen $19,000 all in one place before, stacked high on a table. The bank had arranged a private room for security while he filled the briefcase, and even instructed an armed guard to escort him to his car and see him safely off the lot.

The sun set as Jim leaned against the trunk, daydreaming about Corvettes in 1960s beach movies. A few minutes after seven, he spotted it six blocks away. The shimmering mirage of a lifelong dream, coming toward him under streetlights that shimmered off the freshly waxed hood. It already had the top down when it pulled into the parking space. Deliberate salesmanship.

The owner wore a tropical shirt and sporty dark sunglasses that made him look cool and drive badly at night. He hopped out and shook Jim’s hand. Jim was a bit wooden.

“You feeling all right?”

“Fine,” said Jim. “It’s . . . so beautiful.”

“Good. My name’s Cid. Friends call me Uncle Cid. I don’t know why. Just one of those things that stuck. And I don’t know why I brought it up.” He tossed Jim the keys. “Let’s do it.”

Jim felt like a golden warrior as he sped down U.S. 1 with the wind in his hair, running that powerful stick shift through the gears as streetlights flew by.

“She’s a little high on miles,” said Cid, arm resting over his door. “But I’m a gearhead. Kid gloves.”

Jim hit the clutch. “I can tell.”

A few minutes later, they returned to the restaurant. Cid opened his door. “What do you think?”

“Sold.”

“Let’s wrap it up inside.” Cid looked around. “I’m guessing the money’s in the trunk. This is a safe area, but I’m going to stand out over here in the parking lot and keep watch until you’re in the door. Don’t want anybody stealing
my
money.” A forced laugh.

Jim smiled and popped the trunk . . .

The waitress refilled their coffee on Cid’s signal. “Here’s the bill of sale and the title—just sign here and here. Maintenance records are in the glove compartment.”

Jim leaned over the table with a pen. “How are you getting home?”

“Call a cab.” Cid reached under the table and patted the briefcase safely tucked on the floor between his legs. “I think I can cover it.”

Jim scribbled his name. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. It’s crazy, but ever since I was fifteen . . .”

“Don’t have to explain to me. Here are the keys.”

Jim stared at them in his palm like a rare creature. They even had the original checkered-flag fob.

“Hey,” said Cid. “What’s that guy doing?”

“What guy?”

Cid pointed out the window. “He’s stealing the Corvette!”

“Holy shit!”

“Call the cops!” yelled Cid.

They both jumped up and sprinted through the restaurant, hitting the parking lot just as the thief finished spinning backward out of the parking slot.

“Son of a bitch!” yelled Cid.

The Stingray’s tires squealed and burned rubber.

Jim ran across the lot, fumbling with his cell phone to call 9-1-1. He ran along the edge of U.S. 1 so he could tell the police which way the driver turned, which was west on Hollywood Boulevard toward the interstate.

The operator came on.
“What is your emergency?”

“I’d like to report—” He lowered the phone.

“Sir . . . Sir? . . . Hello? . . .”

“Cid?” said Jim. “Cid, where are you?”

A Dodge pickup suddenly shot out from an alley behind the restaurant.

Jim watched as the truck raced by—Cid behind the wheel—and took off south, following the Corvette.

DOWNTOWN TAMPA

Motorcycle cops directed traffic at every corner as stretch limos filled the street.

TV floodlights lit up correspondents standing in front of a cavernous building.

“Good evening and welcome to tonight’s coverage . . .”

Serge and Coleman pushed their way through a mob under an overpass.

“Always wanted to attend the Republican National Convention!” Serge looked pensively at the sky. “I was afraid Tropical Storm Isaac would ruin everything, but it veered out to sea. Only some threatening feeder bands up there. If they can just hold off another hour before cutting loose . . .”

Coleman glanced around with a cupped roach. “What are you planning?”

“To unite America. Follow me . . .”

On the main street in front of the arena, police had set up rows of galvanized parade barricades on opposite edges of the road, separating rival camps of protesters.

“Tax the rich!”
yelled one side.

“Get off welfare!”
yelled the other.

“My people!” yelled Serge.

Security was tight, but the police had their hands more than full. Serge waited until a moment of distraction and made his move.

Before the cops could react, Serge and Coleman were in the middle of the street, walking down the center line as limos whizzed by in both directions.

Protesters paused and stared curiously at the large sign that Serge held high in the air on a long stick.

“Hey, asshole!”
yelled a Republican from behind the barricades on Serge’s right.
“What the hell’s that sign supposed to mean?”

“What do you think it means?” asked Serge.

“I think I don’t like what it means.”

“Then that’s a reflection on you.”

“Listen, mister! Don’t go putting that on me!”

“No, really,” said Serge. “I’m not arguing. It’s clinically a reflection on you . . .”

From the Democrats on Serge’s left:
“Hey, shithead! Just who the hell do you think you are with that sign?”

“Who do you think I am?”

“I think you’re the whole problem with this country!”

“Then that’s a reflection—”

“He’s a socialist! . . .”

“He’s a fascist! . . .”

Barricades began to fall. Serge grabbed Coleman by the arm. “Pick up the pace . . .”

TV correspondents looked over their shoulders. Cameras and lights swung.
“ . . . There seems to be some kind of disturbance in front of the convention hall. It’s centered around two men in the road with some kind of sign. I’ll try to make out what it says . . .”

Protesters began pouring into the street, tying up traffic and screaming outrage. The rest of the barricades fell as people darted between limos, running faster and faster, waving their own signs.

The first tear-gas canister flew as the two sides merged into a single, full-scale stampede, chasing Serge and Coleman past the arena.

One of the TV correspondents looked up at the amorphous, symmetrical pattern on Serge’s sign as the pair ran by. He raised his microphone.
“Linda, I now know what the sign is that triggered the riot. You’re not going to believe this . . .”

Another reporter raised his mike as the two dashed behind him.
“ . . . It’s a Rorschach pattern . . .”

Coleman panted hard, but fear made him keep up with Serge. “Man, the country’s so pissed off, they’ll automatically disagree with anything.” He glanced back up the street. “Sorry your plan failed.”

“Just the reverse,” said Serge. “It was a complete success!”

“How is this a success?” said Coleman. “Just listen to that yelling.”

“ . . . Kill them! . . .”

“ . . . Get out of America! . . .”

“ . . . Go to Canada! . . .”

“I finally united them.”

A few drops of water hit them in the face. “And just in time,” said Coleman. “It starting to rain.”

“Rain? It’s going to be a deluge,” said Serge. “The feeder bands are cutting loose.”

A sudden gust of wind whipped Coleman’s hair as he looked back over his shoulder. “The mob’s gaining on us. There’s no way we can escape.”

“ . . . Traitors! . . .”

“ . . . Dead meat! . . .”

As Serge had predicted, a torrential downpour erupted. Lightning sliced the sky.

Coleman looked back again, and Serge looked at Coleman. “Why are you slowing down?”

“Because the mob is,” said Coleman. “In fact, they’ve come to a complete stop.”

The pair ceased running and turned around, watching curiously at the reason for their reprieve.

Shouting within the crowd, then fists flew. Someone got tackled; a protest sign was bashed over a head.

“What’s going on?” asked Coleman.

“The rain has smeared all their signs into inkblots.” Serge momentarily covered his eyes. “It’s even worse than before. Democrat on Democrat, Republican on Republican.”

“At least we got away,” said Coleman.

Serge sighed and threw his inkblot sign in a trash can as they disappeared into the darkness under an overpass. “Crap.”